


the dragon prince

by queenlythefirst



Series: the blood of the dragon. [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen Live, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Canon Divergence - Robert's Rebellion, Death in Childbirth, Elia Martell Lives, F/M, Female Jon Snow, House Targaryen, King Rhaegar Targaryen, Multi, Rhaegar Targaryen has dragon dreams, The Targaryens are their own warning, What Have I Done, now I gave them magic, wonder who that could be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22742704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlythefirst/pseuds/queenlythefirst
Summary: Rhaegar fought valiantly, Rhaegar fought nobly, Rhaegar fought honorably. And Rhaegar lived.
Relationships: Arthur Dayne & Lyanna Stark & Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Series: the blood of the dragon. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635253
Comments: 15
Kudos: 96





	the dragon prince

Robert of the House Baratheon, the would-be Usurper of the Iron Throne of Westeros, and the Lord Paramount of the Stormlamds, lay dead in the bloodied waters of the Trident at Rhaegar's feet.

The Silver Prince had half the mind to bury Lord Baratheon's body then and there, away from the seat where his ancestors waited for him to be placed among them. But Rhaegar remembered his great-aunt, Lady Rhaelle, Dowager of the Stormlands, fondly, and the late Lord Steffon more so.

Besides, Robert Baratheon bore the blood of old Valyria, and however dormant it may be, that meant magic haunts the Baratheon bloodline. For that, Rhaegar would honour the traitor.

He turns to Ser Lewyn, his good-uncle and a sworn knight of the Kingsguard, who stands unbowed, unbent and unbroken despite the many wounds he received from fighting against the rebel forces.

"Ready my horse, we ride south to the capital, and if the gods are good, convince my father that burning half the realm is the least idle of the solutions." Rhaegar says, voice melancholy as he stare into the crimson waters. "And send Ser Barristan to treat with Lords Stark, Tully and Arryn." He adds, hesitant at first but what's done is done, peace means more than vengeance.

Ser Lewyn nods, then bows as gracefully as he can, before walking towards where Ser Barristan is being tended to by a maester from Rhaegar's household.

Remnants of the Baratheon forces that bent the knee step forward, intent on removing Lord Baratheon's corpse from Rhaegar's sight, but he stops them with a wave of a hand, then they are scuttering off with bowee heads and muttered apologies.

He pays them no mind, far too focused on stating into the blue depths of Lord Baratheon's dulling eyes.

"You should've won." Rhaegar says, surprising himself and the loyalist soldiers nearby– and Ser Jonother Darry, another sworn knight of the Knigsguard, who look around helplessly to see whomst their Prince is talking to. 

But then they remember the tales told about the Silver Prince, the Prince of Dragonstone born in grief of still burning Summerhall, of how he goes there unaccompanied and plays the harp so sweet that even the trees weep and whispers to the spirits of dead men through magic.

Rhaegar does know magic, like Bloodraven and Shiera Seastar before him, and many more Targaryen before them, but he does not speak to shades, it's not that he can't, it's because he doesn't wish to irke their ire. _Leave the dead to rest in peace_ , his mother would say, another dead babe in her arms.

"I saw it," he continues, ignoring the stares and whispering of his men. "In the flames. You _won_ , and you killed me, Elia, my children." He clenches his fists, and his voice quiets to but a bare whisper. "And took the crown from my father's head– but you cared not for the realm or the power that comes from being king... _her_...all you cared for was- was _Lyanna_ , who you never _have_ because she _dies_ in her brother's arms birthing _our_...our child–"

"My prince?" Ser Barristan's voice breaks Rhaegar from his stupor. He turns, straighten his posture once he sees Lord Stark accompanied by Lords Arrys and Tully surrounded by a garrison of Targaryen Men. "Lords Stark, Tully and Arryn wish to treat with you directly."

Rhaegar tilts his head respectfully, never smiling as he motions for servants to bring forth chairs and a table from the nearest loyalist encampment. They arrive before the tension becomes to thick, or before one can draw a knife, and they sit, his black plate armour clanking, as guards stand on either side.

"My lords," Rhaegar greets, ever the prodigal son of the crown. "I share your grief over the loss of your foster son and closest friend, Lord Stark, Lord Arryn–"

Lord Eddard cuts in abruptly, something that Rhaegar does not expect from the quietest of Lyanna's brothers. "He was more than a friend. He was to be my brother, you do not know my grief." Lord Stark steels himself. "I demand that you return my sister to me, and what remains of my brother, Lord Brandon, and my father, Lord Rickard."

Rhaegar waits until Lord Eddard is finished before he speaks again. "My Lord Stark, the Lord Baratheon was born from the Targaryen blood of Lady Dowager Rhaelle, my great-aunt and as such is my cousin in the blood of old valyria." He hesitates for but a moment before continuing. "As for the Lady Lyanna, I'm afraid she is but a Stark in name no longer, for we wed on the isle of faces near two years past."

Eddard Stark roars in anguish. "She was promised to Robert!"

"I am aware of that my Lord Stark. But surely she told you of how much she abhorred the arrangement, as she told me countless times." Rhaegar measures a knowing look at Lord Eddard and the younger man's shoulders sag as he eases uncomfortably into his seat.

"How do we know you're not lying?" Lord Jon Arryn says, his face and voice passive– but Jon Arryn has lived through more wars that years Rhaegar has been alive. The man may be but a bird among lions, wolves and dragons– but he was forged from valyrian steel.

"I am not my father." He hisses icily. "I pray to the Olds Gods and the New that I never will."

A heavy pregnant pause consumes them as they sit there. Rhaegar looks each of them in the eyes, from Stark grey, Tully blue and the bright eyes of the Arryns. He knows they don't trust him, not completely at least, especially Lord Eddard, who lost two brothers and a father all for naught.

It's Lord Tully who breaks it, the diming Tully red of his hair gointing bronze in the midmorning sun. "What will become of us, your grace?"

"You will bend the knee and will send hostage each to be educated and squired under my watch–" upon seeing their stricken faces, he pauses for but a brief moment before continuing. "I am not my father, as I've said, no harm will come to your kin."

Lord Eddard is still sceptical, and when he speaks his voice is as quiet and as bluntly as Rhaegar imagined it from Lyanna's stories of her brothers. "What do you gain from this?"

Rhaegar sighs sadly. "Peace, and calmness of the mind."

At that moment, Ser Lewyn and Ser Myles Mooton come forward, Rhaegar black stallion being held by his reins behind them and already his men and the former rebel forces have become to disband the encampment.

So he stand, Lords Stark, Tully and Arryn following him, their own knights and squires readying their horses to depart. Servant take the table and chairs away, mouting them in a horse-drawn cart.

Rhaegar smiles, but it is pained. "It would be an honour, my lords, if you would ride with me while we journey to the capital."

Lord Eddard grunts, but nods gruffly, already mounting his horse. Lord Tully is quick to accept, quicker to win the favour of the Prince of Dragonstone sp that the Tullys may be spared. Lord Arryn accepts with cordial grace, but he neither smiles as radiantly as Lord Tully or grimaces as surly as Lord Eddard.

And the moment when everyone is mounted on their horses and the war encampments disbanded, and wounded soldiers tended to, that is when Rhaegar spurs his horse into trot, going south along the Kingsroad do the rest follow him.

* * *

The Iron Throne is covered in blood, his father's dead body limp as the base. Ser Jaime kneels, head bowed in shame, sword offered up towards Rhaegar in apology. Lord Eddard is furious. Rhaegar pays him little mind, he had foreseen this in his dreams, it was expected.

Rhaegar's voice is soft when he speaks, because he likes Ser Jaime, the only knight of the Kingsguard to be truly concerned enough for his mother. "What happened?"

Ser Jaime's voice his brittle, choking on sobs, and Rhaegar remembers is still but a boy, only seven and ten namedays old. "He gave an order, to a pyromancer to burn the city with wildfire– I had to, please your grace, I had no other choice...everyone would've died."

Sweet Rhaenys and little Aegon included.

"You are forgiven." He says, voice loud enough to resound through the throne room. Ser Jaime looks grateful, scared in the bravest of ways, his eyes dark and haunted by what he has seen. "You shall still remain a member of the Kingsgaurd, but you shall not guard a king hereafter, instead you will protect my family."

He grips Ser Jaime's soldiers pulling the boy closer to look into his green cat-like eyes. "Can you do that for me?" 

Ser Jaime nods ardently, his grateful smile as bright as the western setting sun.

* * *

That night, while Rhaegar sleeps, he dreams of a raven with snow white feathers and blood red eyes. It leads him through the ruins of Summerhall, still burning towering flames so high Rgaegar thinks the gods could touch the tips.

It squaks, reminding him of iron grating on iron, and beckons Rhaegar further into the flames that cannot hurt him.

It's a shifting maze of flames and horror, frozen in time, the forms of his ancestors shifting and writhing in continuous agony.

He pauses in his pursuit of the white feathered raven when he recognizes the face of his great-uncle Duncan, the Prince of Dragonflies, from the portraits that line the walls of Dragonstone. Half his face his burnt, one eye gouging out, hand outstretched before him as he screams in silent horror. Rhaegar turns towards where Duncan grasps, and sees the flurry of heavy skirts and form of a young woman fleeing from the scene.

Jenny of Oldstones, Rhaegar guesses, watching as she runs away– but it's slow, drawn out like every other motion besides from him and the raven because this is a dream of a memory. 

The raven squaks angrily, and Rhaegar follows him deeper into the palace–

And he wakes.

* * *

Lyanna of the House Stark lays dying in a bed of her own blood, screaming in agony as her babe is being brought into this world.

She prays to the old gods that it's a boy.

Arthur sits beside her, his large hand clutching her smaller one. He has become one of her closest friends in the time that she's been stuck here because of her difficult pregnancy. She's grateful for him.

"Push my lady." Wylla, her midwife croons, as another maid rushes to wipe the sweat from Lyanna's forehead with a cold cloth. She feels like she is being ripped apart.

She let's loose a blood curdling scream, pushing and pushing until she feels her muscles give out and all she can do is fall to the bed limply as her maids rudh around her in a mad panic to keep her well until the babe is born.

Lyanna already knows she will die here, away from her home, in the hot sands and even hotter sun of Dorne.

Rhaegar's voice echoes in her mind, something he has said countless times when they lay together in each other's nakedness. _The Song of Ice and Fire_ , he would begin, _must be fulfilled._ But songs where just that, songs. Lyanna hoped they were just that.

Pain wracked her body, her back arching to accommodate it, Wylla's soothing words lost in the cacophony of Lyanna's screams.

"Get it out!" She screams. "Get it out!" She sobs, clutching at Arthur's shoulders when he reaches across to hold her.

"One more push, your grace!" Wylla calls from where she kneels on front of Lyanna's spread legs. For the good of the realm, for the good of known world, for the good of her beloved, Lyanna pushes with all her remaining strength, though she can feel it drain from her body along with her life–

And is rewarded with the sweetest sound. Her babe squeals a high-pitched cry, and Lyanna cranes her neck to peer over Arthur's shoulder to watch as Wylla swaddles her babe in blanket of pale lilac silk, embroidered with the conjoined signs of House Targaryen and House Stark.

Lyanna smiles tiredly, spreading her arms to welcome her babe into them. Wylla smiles too, handing the royal babe to it's mother. Lyanna is spellbound, enraptured by her child, born from her and Rhaegar's own loins– but it's broken when Wylla speaks, and Lyanna's smile dies. "It's a girl, your grace."

She feels her throat close around her, feels fear grasp at her bosom– because that means everything Rhaegar has ever told her about the Others and the coming of the second long-night, of the Prince that was Promised, is as true and as real as her and everyone she has ever known. 

"Lyanna!" A voice booms, and she recognises it as Ned's levelled timbre. She holds her daughter closer to her chest, out of fear that Robert may be with them, that Rhaegar may already be dead and burned, his ashes scattered to the winds.

But the door opens and it is Rhaegar who accompanies her older brother, long silver-blonde hair tied back into a braid, indigo eyes bright with worry as he rushes to her side in a matter of seconds.

Ned stands by the door, hand resting on the pommel of his sword, ready to fight at a moments notice. Her brother looks older than she remembers, can see a raggednes that not even Brandon could possess. Though Lyanna knows it's because half his living family is dead, and he fought in a war along with his closest friend in order to save his younger sister when she didn't even need to be saved at all.

"You're going to be alright." Rhaegar murmurs, kissing both her cheeks. "You'll live–"

"No, my love, I will not." Lyanna interrupts, voice hoarse and filled with quiet confidence. Filled with forlorn acceptance. "I can already feel my life leaving me, I will die so our daughter will live."

As if summoned, their daughter burgled from where she rests in Wylla's arms, her arms writhing to grasp at something. Lyanna likes to think her daughter is seeking her, but a part of her, the dying, delirious part knows her daughter will never know her past the day she is born.

Rhaegar's face turns dark. "You will both live." He says defiantly. He turns to Wylla, his arms outstretched, and Wylla places their daughter into his royal arms. Rhaegar stares into the red, squirming face of their babe, reaching out a long, delicate finger to stroke their daughter's cheek.

Rhaegar stands, holding their daughter in front of him. His face is impassive, no emotion passing across his face, but his eyes are alight with an all consuming fire.

When he speaks, it is quiet and filled with power, so quiet that everyone in the room strains to listen to him. "The dragon has three heads."

"What does that mean?" Ned asks, voice restrained.

"It means, my Lord Stark, that Winter is coming."

They continue, but Lyanna's vision is already dimming, her hearing leaving her too, and what little of her strength remained was draining along with her life. She tries to raise her hand, but it falls to her side, her eyes fluttering open and closing in less than a second.

She feels a hand clasp around her own, and the familiar scent of jasmine and orange blossom fills her nose. Arthur sits beside her, gently stroking her hair from her sweat drenched forehead.

"Arthur," she says weakly, and Arthur squeezes her hand tighter in response, "promise me you'll protect her, if what Rhaegar says is true." And then she adds, more deliriously. "Promise me."

Arthur's drawling, husky voice fills her ears as spots cloud her vision until it is nearly wholly black. "I promise, my Lady Stark."

Lyanna of the House Stark died with her daughter's true name on her lips, the Song of Ice and Fire haunting her mind as her soul drifts from her body and joins her ancestors in the realm of the Old Gods.

**Author's Note:**

> Winter is Coming with Fire and Blood.
> 
> (More magic in the next part, I swear, this is just meant to be subtle hint of magic)


End file.
